


I make them good girls go (bad)

by a_thousand_deaths



Category: Fence (Comics)
Genre: Everyone is a girl and they are all very gay, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Genderbending, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_thousand_deaths/pseuds/a_thousand_deaths
Summary: “I didn’t ask for your help,” Jesse snapped.“Well you needed it,” the second reserve said matter of factly, wriggling the teeth of the hairband back into place, and what kind of a third rate school had two reserves?Jesse gave what her father would have called a very unladylike snort.  “You certainly need all the help you can get, seeing as you’re not even properly on the team, so I hardly think you’re in a position to judge.  And by the way,” Jesse sneered at the girl, checking her out from her stupid sneakers to her messy bedhead, and-- fuck it, why not-- she pulled out the air quotes:  “I’m not your ‘bro’ or your ‘bud,’ just so we’re clear, Eugenia.”The reserve laughed.  “By the way,” she drawled, in flawless imitation,  “It’s Gene.  And I’d never make that mistake with you, princess,” she finished, smirking, and Jesse’s cardigan dropped from her fingers, her cheeks flushed pink.  For a minute she was actually speechless, and the Kings’ Row team snickered, no one harder than Katayama, but the girl didn’t laugh, just picked up her sweater, offering it up to her with a bow and a wink from those dark eyes, like they were both in on the joke, and that was the first time Jesse met Eugenia Labao.
Relationships: Aster Leventis/Marcel Barre, Jesse Coste/Eugene Labao, Nicholas Cox/Seiji Katayama
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	I make them good girls go (bad)

The aspens had turned the luminous, lush green of June in New England, leaves silhouetted against the brightness of the sky like cut glass, the air gone cool and clear in that crystalline way that only came this time of year. The team cabins were basic, true, but a decent size, each one painted a cheerful color all its own, and they lay strewn about the lakeside like wildflowers in a meadow, the horizon spreading out before them in all directions, a limitless, cloudless blue. 

Indeed, the more Jesse Coste glowered, shoving her blonde bangs out of her eyes and scouring her surroundings for a single flaw, the more one fact became irrefutable:

Summer Lake was _gorgeous_.

Everywhere she looked had its own particular beauty, whether it was the simple pleasure of sandy shores, with their unspoken promise of a crisp dive into cool waves, or the quiet mystery pooling under the beeches, boughs just barely skimming the surface of the water, but the best spot in the whole camp was far and away the pier. Jutting out from the main beach into the middle of the lake, it was a prime piece of real estate, and Jesse had wasted no time staking Exton's claim there. 

In late afternoon the water was absolutely lovely, a dark, clear indigo, glimmering the long way down to the depths, and she gazed down at the sunlight dancing on ripples, lively and twinkling, and scowled _,_ hefting a rock she’d found weighing down a coil of rope. “This camp is complete bullshit,” she announced to the world at large, flinging the rock into the lake for emphasis, which earned both a splash and a cry of protest from Marcelle, who had set up her beach blanket too near the edge.

Jesse lay back on her own towel, flipping her Wayfarers back down from their perch on her head. “Sorry, Marcelle,” she told her best friend, solemn behind the sunglasses. “It had to be done.” 

Marcelle gave her one of those slow, measured looks of hers that spoke volumes, but she didn’t argue, just finished drying off her stomach with the edge of her towel before fishing around in her bag, eventually emerging victorious with a bottle of nail polish.

 _She knows I’m right._

The lake was deserted, as it was late afternoon and most of the campers were stuck in some activity or other, but Marcelle had somehow finagled to get all her classes in the morning, and meanwhile Jesse knew she could ditch archery every day if she wanted; the camp director was an alumni of Exton, and no one would dare discipline the school’s award winning captain (and, let’s be honest, the best fencer in Exton’s entire _history_ ) over such a trifle.

It made little difference to her, though.

Even being allowed to skip with impunity couldn’t save this clusterfuck. 

Jesse clenched her jaw, surveying the calm perfection of the lake with her lip curled in disdain. “Inter-team unity and the bonds of sisterhood.” She wriggled around on her towel, trying in vain to find a comfortable spot, and paused to twist her skirt back into place over her teeny green bikini. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

It was only the third day of a two month long stint, and she was already completely and utterly over it. 

Jesse huffed, nudged Marcelle with her toe, the motion making her skirt ride up yet again. _Jesus Christ, isn’t sunbathing meant to be relaxing?_ “Seriously. Vent with me here?”

Marcelle sighed, looking up from where she had begun painting her toenails, her usual placid expression marred by a single wrinkle in the center of her forehead. 

“Bitching about it isn’t gonna help,” she said, but the casual resignation in her voice just made Jesse more determined.

Jesse rose up on her elbows, shaking her head at her second in command. “I’m sorry, but not all of us can face doom with the same equanimity as you, Marcelle.” She tossed her hair back, the movement tugging the bikini straps over her sunburn, and Jesse winced. “ _Someone_ has to speak out.”

“Here we go,” muttered Marcelle, finishing her pinkie toe without a speck out of place.

“Oh come off it,” said Jesse, who had never been able to do her own nails without getting cherry red all over everything. “Just because I’m--”

“A complete drama queen--”

“--a little passionate sometimes doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” She gave Marcelle a poke on her elbow in admonishment, but she somehow _still_ didn’t miss a single brushstroke. Instead Marcelle tilted her head up at her, screwing the top of the bottle into place and setting it neatly back into her tote. “It doesn’t make you right, either, Jess,” she said.

Jesse scowled again, but Marcelle was spared further retribution when a flurry of activity caught her attention. A group of girls, all clad in bathing suits and coverups, were making their way down the beach, and the sight of them made her insides go all slow and syrupy, off balance and queasy-- and she didn’t like that feeling, not one bit. 

“God dammit,” she said, sinking back down on the towel, heel of her hand pressed to her forehead. “They’re early.”

“If you don’t want trouble, then quit engaging with them. This isn’t a match. In fact, this is supposed to shore up the bonds--”

“Between rivals,” Jesse finished, rolling her eyes as she rose to her feet; her father had taught her it was always better to meet the enemy from a position of strength. “Yes, I _know,_ Marcelle. That doesn’t make it any less tedious to try and make nice with that pack of delinquents.”

Of the Kings’ Row squad, Cox came first, which made sense because she could never keep herself still for longer than a second. Her hair was up in a messy pony, showing off that punk undercut of hers, and it looked like she was in the middle of yet another endless argument with Katayama, who’d been putting her hair in the same pristine side braid since she’d fought Jesse in the Youth-12 division. Their constant bickering was annoying enough on its own, but they were trailed by Bobbi, small and perky and basically what would happen if Catbug were a real person. When they’d first met she’d gone all heart-eyed and tried to offer Jesse a handmade glitter headband with a fake daisy on it. It was cringe in every possible way, painful in its ugliness, and the most terrifying part of the whole thing was that she suspected Bobbi had meant the gift sincerely.

The worst was saved for last, though, for at the back of the group strode their captain, all brawny muscle and mischievous eyes, a pair of white short shorts setting off the tawny gold of her skin, and to Jesse’s dismay she was wearing the red halter top again. Somehow her boobs looked even better than they had the first time she’d worn it, curving in all the right places, and when she caught Jesse staring she stopped, the smile already growing on her face, and turned to head straight for the pier, leaving the other three behind.

“You know,” said Marcelle conversationally, “if you’d just ignore her, she would eventually get bored and leave you alone.” She had already folded her beach towel into a precise rectangle and was getting to her feet, as if she didn’t expect any real response to this observation, which by her long suffering air had been made many times before.

“ _Ignore_ her? I never ignore a challenge,” hissed Jesse, prowling back and forth in front of her own towel, wishing not for the first time that they were meeting on the piste. For one thing, she’d be wearing her fencing jacket, not a tiny bikini top that she barely filled out, even with padding, and she didn’t care what Marcelle said, it didn’t look cute, it looked pathetic-- nothing like the girl walking up to her now, with her perfect smirk and her perfect chest and her unassuming way of making Jesse feel perfectly out of place.

Compared to _her_ , Jesse was made up of angles, awkward and awful, and she crossed her arms in front of her bikini and sneered and said: “What are you doing here?”

"I knew you owned the strip, Coste," Eugenia Labao said with that easy, infuriating smile of hers. "Didn't realize you owned the lake, as well."

Marcelle made a choked sound that better not have been a laugh. Just in case it was, Jesse gave her a swift kick in the ankle. "That's not what I meant," she said crossly, while Marcelle heaved another quiet sigh, shouldering her bag and heading down the beach with a salute and a shake of her head. _Traitor. And how am I supposed to ignore Gene when she’s wearing that top again? Besides, she wasn’t even meant to be here._

Jesse perched her Ray Bans on her head, narrowing her eyes. " _You_ should still be stuck in archery for the next half hour at least."

Gene tilted her head, her dark, messy hair falling into her face, Jesse's glare bouncing off her grin like she was made of teflon. "Us plebs get to suffer, while you lounge on the beach and get hand-fed grapes, yeah?" 

“Each according to their rank.” 

“And you on top.” Gene’s smile deepened at the edges when she said this, and something molten whispered down Jesse’s hips then, shivering up her thighs, but she kept her own expression proud and still. “Naturally.” Jesse cocked her chin up, gesturing with one easy flick of her wrist to encompass the whole of camp. “Who ranks above _me_ , after all?”

Gene inclined her head, the corners of her smile quirking indulgently. “I guess that’s true,” she said, poking inside her duffel and digging out a lump of melted gummy bears. 

Jesse hummed to herself in satisfaction.

_Point to me._

“Not too proud to accept the inevitable. Not everyone is capable of that.” Jesse nodded, filled with a sudden, uncharacteristic benevolence. “Share your gummies, and you can stay on the pier.” She paused, flashing Gene a radiant smile of her own. Every day the teams drilled together, fencing in small bouts, Jesse leading by example-- which was, of course, as it should be, but-- “Tell you what, I’ll even allow you to take over tomorrow. You’re not half bad at being in charge. You go ahead and call the shots, and I’ll sub for you.” Gene blinked, swallowing the lump of bears she had been chewing in one gulp. Her dark eyes widened as she raised one short eyebrow, and Jess realized, too late, that the phrasing made it seem more of a...

“Not like _that,_ ” she blurted, the back of her neck warm. “Like tomorrow, with the teams, I just, I--”

“Oh, I know _exactly_ what you meant,” Gene said, her smile deepening at the edges again, and she tossed the bag of gummies in the air, catching it in one neat movement. “I still have some left. You wanna eat from my hand, princess?”

Jesse frowned, her neck burning. “No,” she said primly. “Absolutely not _._ ”

“I don’t have any grapes,” Gene continued, ignoring her protests, and the light in her dark eyes made the syrupy feeling come back again, even stronger than before. “But I’m sure I can scrounge up something more sophisticated, just give me a minute.”

Jesse sniffed, adjusting her cover up for the millionth time as she slid her gaze away from the provocation of that playful stare. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“That’s too bad, because I was coming to invite you over to our cabin tonight. Bobbi’s abuela sent over a care package and there’s this one Mexican twinkie thing, _Gansitos_ , and they are next level, there’s some kind of strawberry jam filling and--”

“Thanks but no thanks.” Jesse wrinkled her nose, not even trying to hide her disgust. “Maybe if your team had a scrap of manners, but Nikola was obviously raised in a barn, and Seiji wouldn’t know diplomacy if it bit her in the ass.”

"C’mon, Coste, don’t be a snob.”

The huff was out before Jesse could stop it, an avalanche of anger hot on its heels. “Pointing out the obvious hardly makes me a _snob_ ,” she cried, but Gene wasn’t done. 

“Whenever we train you boss them around like you’re the queen of everything." Gene put one of those big hands of hers on Jesse’s shoulder, warm and gentle, as if they were friends, and Jesse’s stomach twisted, the skin on her face tight and hot. Jesse was the best fencer here, _of course_ she was in charge, but there was no way to say it without sounding like the asshole Gene was accusing her of being, so she bit her tongue, fuming speechlessly. _How dare she patronize me._ Even worse, Gene had the unspeakable nerve to take Jesse’s anger as hurt, for she began stroking the sunburn then, thumb petting the reddened, sensitive skin in a soothing circle. "How do you expect them to react?” she asked, not unkindly. “Half the time at practice, you got your nose stuck so far up in the air I don’t know how you manage to parry. You’re kinda asking for it, don't you think?"

Gene’s triceps were like steel, her biceps defined in a vulgar way that only a philistine would find attractive, crass and obvious and the opposite of the sleek lines of muscle that were the goal of most any fencer. Even her forearms rippled when she did push-ups, but when Jesse grabbed Gene’s hand by the wrist, she let Jesse shove her back like she had no muscle at all. “You can be forgiven for your ignorance, Labao, since you’ve never actually achieved any kind of national ranking, but I’ll have you know that I’m famous around the circuit for my generosity. I always share my time and talent with anyone who asks.” 

“Your _generosity_ ,” Gene said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now? I remember the day you came to Kings’ Row peacocking around, princess, but ‘generous’ isn’t quite the word that comes to mind.”

"In case you’ve forgotten, I was invited,” Jesse said, pronouncing each syllable of the last word with deft dissection. “To demonstrate superior athleticism to your ragtag lot of miscreants. And I thought you said I was the _queen_.”

“Yes, and you soaked up every second in the spotlight, didn’t you, your highness?” Gene snorted and Jesse’s spine went rigid, her shoulders high around her ears, sunburn throbbing under her bathing suit. "Meanwhile,” Gene continued, “I'm sure you'd be over the moon if someone came to Exton to strut their stuff on your home turf."

"No need for that," Jesse replied stiffly, staring down at Gene's dark, pretty eyes. “I’m the best. I’ve taken Nationals the past three years running.”

In lieu of the gasp this accomplishment usually elicited, Gene laughed, a pure, merry sound, like a bell. "That must be nice,” she said, and Jesse felt a vein in her temple pulse.

"It _is,"_ she snapped. "You should try it sometime."

"Having an ego the size of a small planet?” Gene grinned again, wider this time. “Nah, I’m good, thanks. But if I ever have second thoughts, I’ll be sure to follow your world-class example.” 

Jesse gritted her teeth. "You could learn a lot from me, you know. I could show you a few moves right now," she said without thinking.

Gene crossed her arms in front of her chest so that her biceps flexed, leaning in close enough that Jesse could smell the coconut from her sunscreen. “I’d _love_ to see your moves, anyplace, anytime," she said, smirking up at her as Jesse started to feel her cheeks burn. "Something you have in mind, princess? Maybe a quick touch?" 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jesse growled, grabbing her towel and cramming it in her beach bag, but when she tried to move past Gene, the wrap skirt gave up the ghost at last, dropping to the deck behind her, and Jesse froze, naked except for her tiny green bikini, going an even brighter pink. She’d have to squeeze by Gene to get it, easing past all that muscle, brushing against her bare skin, and--

Gene bent over, scooping the cover up into her hands and tossing it over lightly, her eyes steady on Jesse’s face, and she must have forgotten her sunscreen yesterday, too, because at closer glance her cheeks were a dark, rosy red. “Give it a chance, princess. It could be fun,” she said softly, and Jess’s fingers sank into the sheer fabric, pulling it taut. To her utter humiliation her hands were trembling enough that she was too clumsy to even attempt to put it back on.

_God, it’s even worse dealing with her when she’s pretending to be serious._

Labao’s artless flirtations were clearly meant as a joke. There was no way Gene would be interested in someone that she’d made clear only existed to her as a punchline. 

“In your dreams,” Jesse said, shoving her sunglasses on, and she stormed off the pier, seething, the confusion that had flashed across Labao’s face only adding to her fury. _She must think I’m a fool, not to be able to see right through her act._

And to think, all this could have been avoided. As she stalked down the beach, Jesse finally allowed herself permission for the sulk she had spent all day staving off. 

Really, who could blame her for being upset? Jesse _should_ be training with her father in France. Failing that, she should have spent summer semester at Exton, but apparently the universe had decided that either of those made far too much sense. Instead, the fates had aligned at the _Connecticut Interscholastic Athletic Conference_ in the worst possible way: vis a vis one Sally Williams putting forth some preposterous scheme she’d hatched about “rewarding sportsmanship” and “fostering healthy rapport between student athletes” by sticking them in a fucking summer camp like bugs in a jar, shaking them together to see what happened.

_What are we, fifth graders?_

The rumblings had started during Spring Break, but Jesse hadn’t been worried. There was no way Robert Coste would buy into this woo-woo kumbaya everyone-is-a-winner-in-their-own-way crap... but apparently she _should_ have been worried, because somehow Sally Williams managed to talk her father into going along with her lunatic plot. 

It was ridiculous. Just because they used to fight together back in the day, didn't mean she had anything worthwhile to say now. Making friends and “developing relationships” was all well and good, but playing a sport for that alone? 

_Please._

Jesse fought because she loved fencing, true-- but she also loved victory _._ Loved standing tall on that podium, loved the way the cheers echoed in the gym, and most of all loved her dad’s face when she fell upon her competitors like a wolf among lambs. Jesse Coste was a dyed in the wool champion, just like her old man. Someone like Sally Williams would never understand what drove them.

 _She_ hadn't medaled in Tokyo, after all.

_She never even made it as an alternate._

But no matter how Jesse flattered or frowned, her dad would not budge, and so it seemed she, Jesse Coste, number one in the under 19 age bracket for epee and slated as a clear favorite for the next US Olympic Fencing Team, was destined to spend the better part of her summer in league with a bunch of misfits and idiots.

It would have been easier if the camp had the decency to be ugly, but to live in this vision of perfection, all the while dealing with the day to day grind, all the myriad little humiliations-- the team building exercises, the ice breakers, making nice with all these coat-tail riders and wanna-bes, these smirking assholes who lived to laugh at her hard work like Jesse hadn’t earned what she had _herself_ , impeccable pedigree notwithstanding-- (Robert Coste wasn’t the one who beat Seiji Katayama, after all)… 

And then there was _Labao_. 

Neither a lackey nor a rival, she was unranked, a true blue _nobody_ (and not in a dark horse way like Cox, who had some degree of talent, albeit crude and unpolished): no one who should have mattered at all.

Labao was a so-so fencer, a somewhat decent softball player (there were better, even on Kings' Rows dinky little team), a B+ student; in short, damned to mediocrity in everything she did. Too stocky for fencing, too muscular full stop, too apt to smile, too quick to make a joke, and there were plenty of other girls to choose from with that hipster just rolled out of bed hair that was so trendy now.

And with all that against her, Labao had the gall to do what no one else did. To fuck with Jesse in a way with no one else would dare. _Just who does she think she is, anyway?_

She shouldn't even be a blip on Jesse's radar. 

But somehow, her laugh and her smile and her eyes had wriggled under Jesse's skin like a splinter, and try as she might, there was no getting her out. 

_Why am I wasting my precious time with a single thought of her?_

Thankfully Jesse was able to make her way to the Exton cabin without running into any other fencers from the Kings’ Row team, which was a relief, as she wouldn’t want to have been responsible for what she might have said or done.

_Dad was wrong. There’s no point to this, none at all._

She lay on the thousand thread count sheet she’d smuggled from home, eyes wide open and burning, glaring uselessly at the ceiling fan. When he came for family day, she’d explain everything. He’d see how stupid the whole thing was, and he’d pull her out. 

By this time next week, Jesse Coste would be in France, where she belonged; and thus it was, with pleasant visions of Paris running through her mind, that she finally brought herself to slip her silk face mask into place, curl up against her down pillow, and go to sleep. 

***************

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Jack, Elisse, and Nik:
> 
> This one is dedicated to you guys. :) I hope you liked it.


End file.
